Chapter 4 - The Threat at the Door
“Karen, stop screaming and listen to me,” Aunt Sarah said into the receiver, her voice unnaturally calm and steady. “I have the video from Leo’s watch. I know exactly what happened to your phone. And I know what you did to Clara.”
A sharp intake of breath hissed through the phone line, followed by a sudden, dangerous silence. When my mother spoke again, all the hysterical panic was gone, replaced by a cold, venomous hiss.
“That brat recorded me without my permission? You’re letting a nine-year-old spy on his own family? You are brainwashing them against me, Sarah! You’ve always been jealous because our parents favored me, and now you’re trying to steal my daughter because your own husband couldn't give you—!”
Click.
Aunt Sarah slammed the receiver down onto the cradle, her chest heaving as she stared at the wall phone. “She hung up.”
“She’s not going to let this go,” Mark said, walking to the window and peering out through the lace curtains toward the quiet street. “Karen doesn't know how to back down when she’s caught. Her ego won't survive admitting she abused her kid over a dropped phone.”
“What do we do?” I asked, a cold knot forming in my stomach. The brief sense of safety I had felt in the kitchen suddenly began to evaporate, replaced by the familiar dread of my mother’s unpredictable rage.
“We call Detective Miller,” Aunt Sarah said firmly, reaching for her cell phone on the counter. “He handled our neighbor’s property dispute last year. He’ll tell us how to file a formal report and get a protection order started immediately.”
She dialed the number, waiting through three long rings before the line connected. She began explaining the situation, detailing the skipping rope, the bruised waist, and the smartwatch footage sitting on the table.
As she talked, I walked over to the front window, standing beside Uncle Mark to look out at the sunny afternoon. The street was quiet. A delivery van was driving slowly past, and a neighbor was watering his lawn three houses down.
Then, a red sedan turned the corner onto our street, moving far too fast.
It was my mother’s car.
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It didn't slow down as it approached Aunt Sarah’s driveway. Instead, the tires squealed loudly against the asphalt as the sedan swerved sharply, slamming to a halt directly across the end of the driveway, blocking our car in.
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